SuperWho, Drabbles
by forgettingtofly
Summary: A collection of SuperWho drabbles, sometimes inspired by prompts, sometimes inspired by my own craziness.
1. prompt: beginning

prompt: _beginning_

She appeared, into thin air, like a specter or some kind of projection, flickering, sparking, then solidifying. Deep, shining eyes, and she was smiling.

Sam lifted his gun in a heartbeat, but didn't fire. Ghosts didn't usually smile at him. "Who are you?"

She didn't answer at first. She gave a breath of a laugh, c***ing her head to the side as if she was examining him. Her dark hair was down to her shoulders, and she started to twirl a piece of it between her fingers, biting her lip. Like she knew him.

"Sammy!" Dean barreled around the corner then, stumbled to a halt and whipped his own weapon up. "Whoa-wha-"

"Dean, wait. Don't shoot her yet...I think..."

"What the h-" Dean jabbed his gun aggressively, "Talk, now, or I fill you full of rock salt."

The woman rolled her eyes then, falling into a relaxed posture, arms crossed. Sam noticed a strange device around her wrist-like a tricked-out watch or something. It had blinking lights, and he could almost see energy pulsing out of it. Not very ghost-like. Then, the woman spoke.

"Alright, Dean," her eyes shifted to him, "Sam. Calm down. This is complicated, but I know you two can handle it."

Dean had not relaxed his aim at all. "Who are you?"

"Martha. Martha Jones."

Sam's gun was already lowering, but his eyebrows furrowed. "Do we...know you?"

Her smile turned bittersweet, as if she had just remembered something wonderful and terrible all at once. As if some memory had just surfaced in her mind, and her eyes grew wistful. She met his gaze.

"Not yet."


	2. prompt: wild west

"MARTHAAAAAAAAAA!"

Sam glanced up from the monitor on the Tardis console. The Doctor, puffing from his lengthy yell, was running long fingers through his hair, obviously frustrated, glaring at a set of controls in front of him. "Where the bloody hell's Martha got to?"

"Uh, she and Dean…"

"_Dean_? What's she off with Dean for?"

Sam half-smiled and shook his head. "Dean asked you for a tour of the Tardis. You said something about needing to 'monitor a temporal timey-wimey fluctuation' and told Martha to show him around. Last I saw they went up those stairs…" he nodded to the fire-escape staircase leading up one wall of the spaceship.

The Doctor had been muttering curses to himself, only half-listening. Now he looked up, squinting at the rumbling Tardis engine. "Ah, yes, well, isn't that just wonderful. The minute I need her, she goes galavanting across all the relative dimensions with some suspicious American." The Time Lord scrubbed the back of his neck and looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Ignoring the jibe, Sam sighed. "You need me to go get Martha, then?"

The Doctor's face burst into a brilliant smile. "Oh, would you? It's this set of stabilizers, you see. They keep wanting to, well, _stabilize_. Can't have that. And Martha always seems to know the exact way to knock them about to get them to…loosen."

Instead of trying to figure out why a loose stabilizer was a good thing, Sam shut down the monitor (which had been giving him a rundown of planets in the area—planets that he had only ever dreamed existed). "I'll go then. Up those stairs?"

The Doctor had buried his head into the Tardis console again. "Yeah, up those stairs, walk about 20 meters, then take three rights, a left, and two more rights, a spiral staircase up, the fireman's pole down and it'll beeeeee…" a drawn-out, thinking vowel, "…four doors on your diagonal."

Sam blinked. "O-okay. Sure." He started up the stairs.

"If you get lost, just shout." The Doctor flashed him a grin, then went back to work.

It felt like hours, but it could have been minutes. Who could know in a time machine? Sam found himself looking in on the strangest room he had yet encountered in the Tardis (and he was sure it wouldn't be the last). It was a sort of spiraling room, with at least 20 ladders scaling the walls, leading to several circular platforms.

And on all of these platforms were just one thing.

_Clothes_.

Hundreds and hundreds of _clothes_.

"DEAN!"

Sam had expected his voice to echo up through the tall room, but it seemed to get lost somewhere. Probably in all of the fabric. "Dammit," he grumbled. He hated climbing ladders.

"Sam!"

Spinning, Sam encountered a very surprised Martha Jones, wearing what looked like a coon-skin cap and a black, tassled coat that came down to her knees.

"M-Martha…"

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry. Did I scare you?" She was laughing and breathless, and in one hand she had a toy pistol. Her face sparkled with fun.

Sam found his airway suddenly closing up, so he coughed and tried to cover his embarrassment with a smile. "No, not really. Just…mostly scared by your fashion choices…"

Martha looked down at her clothes as if it was the first time she had seen them. Her large eyes were horrified for just a moment, but then a playful smile took over and she laughed. "Oh, this. Well, you know, I've been travelling with the Doctor for a while. But I'd never really been inside his closet before. I mean, honestly, how much fun would it be to mess around with all of this on your own?"

Sam snorted. "Dean would have a field day." His face brightened suddenly. "He's found the Wild West costumes, hasn't he?"

"How'd you know?"

"I know my brother." Sam craned his neck to look around. "So, this is the Doctor's closet, huh? Man, why would he need this many clothes?"

Martha shrugged. "He's over 900 years old—I'd guess you get together quite a collection in all that time. Mostly, though, he says it's for his guests. So we can _blend in_."

They both rolled their eyes. Even knowing the Doctor for a very short time was enough to tell anyone that he cared very little for "blending in."

"So, where is Dean, anyway?"

Martha looked around, furrowing her brow. "I'm…not sure…"

"YEEEEHAAAWWW!"

In a flurry of leather and jingling spurs, someone wearing a dusty stetson and a floor-length leather coat fell out of the level above them, rolled a few times and came up on one knee, pointing a toy gun at Sam with a very dangerous scowl on his face..

Sam and Martha had both taken several steps back. Sam was the first to speak. "Dean, what the hell?"

Dean snapped out of his intense glare, got off of his knees and twirled the silvery gun around his finger, a boyish smile spread across his face. His eyes were sparkling. "Dude, would you look at this stuff? It's like it came straight out of the Old West!"

"Well it did."

All three spun around to see the Doctor leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets, grinning proudly.

Dean pushed the stetson back. "Seriously? You mean this stuff is legit?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Certainly. I've met quite a few of your "cowboys" in my travels. To be honest, apart from Mr. Colt, very few have been friendly…"

Sam froze. "Colt? As in Samuel Colt?"

Dean's eyes were practically glazed over. "Sammy—this. is. awesome."

The Doctor pushed off of the doorway and started to walk out into the hall. "Thanks for going to fetch Martha, Sam. Turns out the stabilizers loosened themselves very nicely after I shouted at them for a bit. Carry on!"

Dean whirled. "Alright, Marty, how 'bout another round?" He twirled his toy gun a few times (the Doctor had not allowed Dean to carry around his own real guns, so Dean was obviously in love with the feeling of one back in his hands, however fake it might be).

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Marty?" He looked down at Martha questioningly.

She smiled back at him, fiddling with the tail of the coonskin cap on her head. "I think I know just the costume that you'll fit into, Sam. Stay here…I'll be right back." She climbed a ladder nearby and disappeared into the miles of clothing racks above. Sam watched her, his throat muscles working and his face trying not to break into a broad grin.

Dean came up beside Sam and shoved him roughly in the arm. "Dude, that girl is alright. _You_ don't make a move soon, _I_ might."

_FIN_


	3. prompt: when she found out

She laughed. She actually started laughing.

Not just a chuckle, or a giggle. Full out, belting laughter. They were sitting in a little pub, just down the road from Martha's home. He had thought here would be a good place—somewhere that just screamed "normal" and "comfortable." So that when he had to tell her that her world was rife with dangers she had never even imagined, at least she would be somewhere familiar. He had never in million years expected this kind of response. And while he was becoming pleasantly caught up in the way her eyes were shining, or the way her laughter made him want to grin like a fool, he couldn't understand this reaction in the least. Was it some sort of panic? Maybe some kind of denial?

"Am I…missing something?" he asked finally, when it seemed that she had wound down a bit.

Martha took a few gasping breaths, which seemed to steady her. She still had a bit of trouble maintaining a straight face when she finally looked at him again. She took a long gulp from the beer she had ordered and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You could say that, Sam Winchester."

Sam smiled back at her, but he wasn't entirely sure why yet. His fingers were tracing the circle his own mug had left on the countertop. "You…you don't believe me, then?" That he could handle. He'd been expecting that.

Martha's eyes widened, and she grasped his forearm gently. "No, Sam, I _do_ believe you. It's crazy, I know, and totally mad, but…I believe you."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together. "Then, wh-"

"Hold on." Martha's face had become serious, but also full of anticipation. A kind of inspiration was sparkling behind her eyes, as if she had a marvelous secret to share. "I have something to tell you, Sam, and it's going to sound crazy too. But now…now, I think that you can handle it." She almost squealed with delight, and she was gripping his forearm again. "Sam, it's the most amazing thing—the universe is so huge, and so strange, and so…so…_brilliant_! I've wanted to tell someone for forever, but I couldn't. No one would believe me."

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Sam Winchester, it's my turn to tell you something that will turn your world upside down."


	4. prompt: long distance

The banging sound was louder today than most days. When the Doctor was separated from his Tardis for long periods of time, he liked to spend hours upon hours climbing all over it, making sure nothing had gotten out of whack. Currently, his top half was buried in the underbelly of the Tardis, with just his lanky blue pants and red trainers splayed out on the floor.

"Doctor, are you about done under there?" asked Martha, leaning against the Tardis console.

"Just a few more whosits that need calibrating. Won't be a tick."

"You've been under there for nearly an hour. I think she's working just fine-"

"Never can be too careful. Would you hand me the spanner…"

"The wha-?"

"Oh, nevermind, I keep forgetting that it got stolen…blast…"

The console behind Martha trilled suddenly, like a ringing phone. She whirled, eyeing a blinking green light and a fizzing monitor.

"What's that?"

There was a clank. The Doctor had smacked his head on part of the Tardis floor. "Oof…it's the communicator. Just turn the orange wheel."

Martha touched the orange dial suspiciously. "So, it's like a video call?"

The console trilled again, and it sounded louder and more impatient than before.

"Oi, answer it before whoever it is gives up."

Martha did as she was told. The monitor whirred and spit static, and the image wavered. Hitting the side, Martha finally gained some clarity.

"Sam!"

"Martha!" Sam Winchester sat clear as day on the monitor in front of her. His face was a little fuzzy, and the sound was a bit off, but it was still him. "Woah…I didn't think this would work."

"Doctor, why is Sam calling us?"

Something clattered and the Doctor muffled a curse in a language Martha didn't know. He had dropped his sonic screwdriver down into the bowels of the Tardis. "Bloody-brilliant, that is," he grumbled, pulling himself up out of the hole and brushing some dust off of his blue jacket. "Oh, is that Sam? I told him to contact us when they were certain the Weeping Angels were out of town." He leaned his head over, catching a glimpse of Sam on the monitor. "All clear then?"

Sam nodded. "Yup…all clear. We trapped the last two—Dean's out now storing them until you can collect them."

The Doctor waved. "Not to worry. We'll make a stop in a bit. Ta! I'm off to find my sonic—talk to Martha." With that, the Doctor once again buried himself into the Tardis engine.

Sam glanced at Martha, smiling in that lopsided way that made her stomach flutter a bit. "Not much for talking right now, is he?"

"Oh, he's just worried about the Tardis. It was only out of his sight for a few weeks, but he's still convinced that something might have—I don't know—messed with it."

"Sounds like Dean with the Impala."

"How is Dean?" Martha took a look at the environment around Sam—it looked like a typical kitchen. Bobby's place, maybe? She had heard Sam and Dean talk about him.

"He's alright. A little sick of aliens that look like angel statues. But I think he secretly likes the challenge." Sam laughed a bit, glancing off screen, like he was checking to see that he was alone. "How…how are you?"

Martha smiled. "I'm fine. A bit out of my element. I don't know anything about the Tardis engines and The Doctor—" she shot a look to the trap door where he had disappeared, "he doesn't seem to remember I'm here most of the time. Just him and his ship."

Sam's brow lowered a bit. "And where are you right now? Am I…am I talking to you across galaxies or something?"

Martha laughed. "More like across time _and_ space, actually. Last I checked, we're about 2,000 years in your future. Not sure why…the Doctor thought it was as good a place to 'park' as any."

He shook his head, running fingers through his hair. "Wow, I'll never get over that. I seriously never would have thought…until, well, until the angels, and the Tardis…"

Martha lowered her eyes, suddenly finding the console very interesting. She wasn't sure why the next words left her mouth. "You should…I don't know, come along sometime." She paused, then looked up. "You and Dean should, I mean. The Doctor would be happy to—"

"What would I be happy to do, Martha Jones?" The Doctor poked his head out of the hold in the floor, proudly displaying his newly retrieved sonic screwdriver and grinning like a madman.

"U-uh, take Sam and Dean along, you know, on a trip. Just one. They've earned it," Martha stammered, leaning nonchalantly on the console again and avoiding Sam's gaze.

The Doctor pondered, staring at his screwdriver and sniffing absently. "Yeah, sure. Alright. One trip, though. I'm not a bloody tour bus, am I?" He winked at her, glancing over at Sam on the screen and grinning again.

Martha broke into a smile and found Sam's eyes. "You hear that? One trip. It'll be great."

Sam's eyes were wide, but there was a fire of adventure sparkling there. And maybe something else. He shook his head, laughing in disbelief.

"I can't wait."


	5. prompt: accusation

prompt: _accusation_

fandom_: Superwho_

"Just tell me. You owe me that much."

"Tell you what, Sam?"

"Are you…are you…" he couldn't finish. His throat felt like it was trapped in a vise. He didn't know how to say it. He just wanted her to know what he meant.

He wanted to stop pretending, to stop wondering how she felt about him. He felt like he was in high school all over again, only this time he knew that he really loved her. But it had been so long since he had said it to anybody. It had been so hard, since Jess. And now all he wanted was to grab her by the shoulders and tell her he'd do anything—_anything_—for her.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. Not if she belonged to someone else.

He breathed in through his nose slowly, steadying himself. He had one arm braced against the counter in Bobby's kitchen. He couldn't make himself meet Martha's gaze where she sat at the table, though he was sure she probably thought he was going crazy. So he just said it.

"Are you in love with Dean?"

Penny in the air.

When the silence was too much, he glanced up. She was staring at him, the strangest expression on her face. Almost as if she hadn't heard him. And he started to panic. His face was becoming exceedingly warm, and he wanted to duck out of the room and never come back ever again.

Then she was moving, pushing back her chair and crossing to him in one fluid motion. Her hands found his, her breath on his face, then her lips crashed into his, almost painfully, and they were melded. He felt like he was fumbling, but then his arms circled her waist, and her hand was tangled in the hair at the back of his head. When she pulled away for air, he wasn't ready.

"You complete idiot," she breathed, "why would you think that?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I just…the way you two talk to each other. It just…"

"Shhh…" she kissed him softly. "You're insane," she laughed, and she met his eyes gently. "But I love you anyway. Took you long enough to ask me, though."

"I didn't want to…"

She cut him off, nestling her head under his chin and cementing him in a firm embrace. "I know, Sam. I know."

They stood like that for a while. Sam didn't know what had happened, but he didn't really care. Martha was safe in his arms and he wasn't going to let her go any time soon.


	6. prompt: (the angel in the garden)

_A/N: based on a "what if" prompt request on Tumblr. The prompt was "What if Sam met Martha while he and Dean were hunting what turned out to be an alien?"_

The boy had said that his father vanished right before his eyes. Into thin air.

And the boy said that the angel did it.

Sam and Dean had stumbled across the story online one day, just as they were passing through a small town in rural Minnesota. Sam had chipped away at Dean's disinterest until all his brother could do was roll his eyes and promise that they would drop by and check it out.

They planned to pose as reporters from some kind of conspiracy theory website, but the mother mistook them for the child counselors that she had called about her son's traumatic experience. They rolled with it.

"So, Glenn," said Sam, bending down a bit so he was at eye-level with the six-year-old. "Tell us what happened."

Dean cleared his throat and wandered to the other side of the room, casually glancing out the window into the garden.

"The angel took him," Glenn murmured, scuffing his shoe against the carpet. "Daddy disappeared when the angel moved."

Sam's eyebrows lowered a bit in thought. "Did you see the angel move?"

Glenn seemed to be confused. "Not…not really—kinda. It looked different sometimes…and sometimes it wasn't there at all."

The angel was in the garden, a tallish stone garden ornament that was, in Dean's opinion, insanely creepy and probably more suited to be a Halloween decoration than a centerpiece for a flowerbed. The angel seemed still enough, however. It's hands were lifted to cover its eyes—almost like it was crying.

Dean nodded the hovering mother over. "When did you get that?" he asked, indicating the statue.

She was wringing her hands a bit now, glancing between him, the angel, and her son, who was still talking to Sam in quiet tones. "Just a few months ago, at an auction in Alexandria. It was an antique—some local artist had it in his basement or something and they found it after he died. They called it _The Weeping Angel_."

Dean smiled reassuringly. "Thanks. We'll look into it. Let us know if you think of anything else." He turned to the other side of the room. "Sam, let's go."

"Dean, I-"

"C'mon, we've gotta get to…er…another appointment, remember?"

Sam clenched his jaw, but nodded curtly and stood. "Thanks, Glenn. We'll talk again soon, okay?"

"What was that all about, Dean? That family could be in real danger…"

They were walking down the sidewalk to where they had parked the Impala at the end of the street. Dean scoffed. "From what, a dusty old antique in the backyard? Seriously Sam, that kid is 6-years-old and dammit if he doesn't have the same kind of crazy imagination that you had at that age."

"Look, Dean, we've gone on less before. The dad's gone without a trace—no _trace_, Dean. And we've dealt with statues being inhabited before. Remember that painting…or the mirror…the mannequins…"

Dean stopped and threw his head back, sighing deeply. "Fine. We'll stop at the antique store in Alexandria and check it out, okay? Happy?"

Sam nodded. "Yes."

There was a soft laugh from behind them. "Don't bother, guys."

They turned quickly. The woman who had spoken stood a few feet behind them, wearing a maroon jacket and dark hair brushing her shoulders. She was smiling inquisitively at them.

Dean frowned. "And you are?"

She shrugged and glanced over at the house, towards the garden in the back. "Just a fellow…investigator." She looked back at them quickly. "You _are_ investigating the angel, right?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably next to Dean, but didn't speak.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" asked Dean.

She walked forward a bit and drew her hand out of her jacket pocket, offering it to him. "The name's Martha Jones. There's someone I'd like you to meet. Someone who knows more about the Weeping Angels than anyone you're bound to find."


	7. prompt: (martha's final farewell)

_A/N:_** SPOILER ALERT FOR THE ANGELS TAKE MANHATTAN** _(AU; SuperWho; Sartha) based on the "what if" prompt on Tumblr; the prompt was "What if Sam got sent back in time by the angels and Martha had to say goodbye to Ten?"_

—-

"Martha, come away. He's gone, Martha, he's gone…"

The Doctor's voice was a frantic urgency that barely broke through the haze in Martha's mind. Seconds ago, as she stood in the graveyard laughing and relieved to be safe again, she had watched Sam disappear before her eyes. Now, her gaze was fixed on the angel, the stone creature wearing a feral growl on it's cracked face, pointing accusingly at her.

They had escaped through a paradox, and this was an avenging angel, ready to make things right.

"Doctor, wait," Dean broke in, and she could hear the tension in his voice—she knew that he was pointing a gun at the angel, not caring how futile it was. There was a sort of wild calm in his voice, almost like denial. "We can go get him, can't we? Take the Tardis back…" His voice caught, because he knew the answer already.

It took the Doctor a moment—she could hear the grief in his silence. "No, I can't, I'm sorry, Dean." He reached out and gripped her shoulder, trying pull her back. "Martha, it would be too dangerous. I would risk destroying New York City—the planet—time itself…we already risked too much with the paradox we created. Come away, Martha, come into the Tardis. I'm so, so sorry."

She had never heard him this desperate. Maybe because he knew what she was thinking. She was thinking about the grave marker behind her, with Samuel Winchester's name carved in a solid block of finality. He was already dead, and she would spend the rest of her life without him. Unless…

"Doctor, the angel—will it send me back, back to the same place? The same time as Sam?" Her chest filled with cold, mist-laden air. She thought of this air as the last taste she would have of home.

The Doctor was at her side now, gripping her shoulders. "Stop it, stop this right now, Martha Jones. You can't-"

Martha raised her voice, afraid that his words would shake her too much. "Is it my best chance, though. To be with him? The angel might send me back and I could live with him—Doctor, I can't lose him again. Not the way I did before in the year he can't remember. I won't."

"Do it, Marty." She felt another hand. Dean, lifting her fingers to his lips and kissing them gently. "It's your best shot." His voice cracked, but he held her hand still.

The Doctor's frustration could almost be felt in the air around them. "Martha, the risks…you don't know where it will send you…"

The tears came now, fresh and hot. She took a shuddering breath, squeezed Dean's hand, and smiled. "It will be okay. Dean, take care of my mum, okay? Make sure she knows what happened. That I'm happy. That I'm with Sam."

"I will."

"Martha, please…"

It hurt like nothing really could to hear the Doctor's voice to broken, to feel his hand brush the back of her leg—he was kneeling on the ground now, she could tell. But she knew with incredible certainty that this was what was supposed to happen. As long as she was with Sam, everything would be fine. The Doctor didn't need her.

But she needed Sam, and Sam needed her—they kept each other whole.

"Doctor, I want you to promise me something. Promise me," she choked on her words, feeling the weight of them as she looked into the screaming face of the angel, "promise me that you'll find someone. Find Rose. Find anyone. Don't be alone for too long."

"Martha."

"Promise, Doctor."

It took a moment, because she knew that The Doctor had not prepared for her to leave so soon. And right now he would be blaming himself. Angry that he had not seen the angel, angry that he had let them linger in that graveyard too long, angry that he allowed Sam to see a gravestone with his name carved there. But the Doctor would be alright. He would survive, and he would understand.

"Martha Jones," he murmured, and this time his voice was broken but full of wonder and a deep sadness, almost like pride. "You were—you _are_—amazing."

The smile welled up like the tears and she let herself laugh. There was that tingle, that twinge of adventure—running into the unknown. This is what she was made to do. Giving Dean's hand one last squeeze, she turned to The Doctor and she winked.

"I know."

There was a sort of ripple of energy, and everything around her winked out of existence. The angel's touch had felt like heat and static and a whirlwind, and then she was stumbling dazedly on the pavement. She bent down, slightly sick, mostly afraid, entirely aware of a deep ache in her heart.

Then she heard his voice.

"Martha!"

And they were crushed in each other's arms, holding on like they could be torn away form each other at any moment. She buried her face in his jacket, gripped his clothes, held the back of his neck, cried hot tears, and listened as he said "I love you" over and over again.

This was how it was meant to be. Always.


End file.
